03 Apr First Hate Crime
You never forget your first hate crime, especially as the victim. Just like your first day of school, first kiss, or first love the moment is seared into your brain.
Moving from Bellwood, Illinois to Rialto, California at the end of 5th grade and start of my 6th grade year was a challenge for our entire family. The harsh winters of Chicago were too much to bear for my aging grandparents, great-aunties, and Puppa, who worked outside at O’Hare Airport. Puppa’s “bones would ache” from the bitter winds that the area was known for; no matter how many layers of clothing was worn the wind-chill would cut through to the last cell of his body.
My friends were all excited for me because I was moving to Southern California- Hollywood, celebrities, beaches, palm trees, and warmth. Rialto had the palm trees and warmth and my family embraced it. Our neighborhood was comprised of hard working, middle class families where most of the moms stayed at home, but we were the only “fresh off the boat (airplane)” immigrants within a few blocks. There were a few Hispanic families that had moved to the area years before when the track homes were built.
With an extended family living in a single family home, smells of garlic, ginger, spices wafting through the air, and chai as opposed to coffee being brewed we were not the average residence in our neighborhood, but neither were we in Bellwood. Late one night, after Puppa came home, we sat around the floor for supper. The elders would wait for my Puppa to come home and we would sit together and eat. No matter how hungry the kids were it was understood that we shall sit, thank Allah and eat together.
“BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM! What seemed like gunshots disturbed our mealtime.”
As kids it seemed like we were hungry quite a bit during the early years in the States. There was food but just enough- never in excess. By suppertime we were ravenous after having completed a full day’s of school, religious studies with our elders, and chores. Sitting around the perimeter of the “dustukhan” or tablecloth only used for food and placed on the floor of a room to eat on, we chatted about Puppa’s day, what new business venture my Daadi would have loved to invest in if we had the money, my Daada’s gardening progress, and when other family members would be moving to California- BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM! What seemed like gunshots disturbed our mealtime.
Daada and Puppa ran towards the noise, through our front door only to find silence in the night. Daada was a former police officer, police chief, and police academy director so he and Puppa assessed the situation and came back in the house.
“Kai hoe guyia?” What happened, what happened a chorus of voices went up but not ours- not the children’s. We never questioned our elders; they questioned us. We did listen and Daada and Puppa simultaneously dismissed it with, “Kuch nahhey.” Nothing.
The next day before walking to school, I looked around to do my own assessment. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary- same block, same houses and same kids walking to school. As I turned to wave good-bye to one of my great-aunts, I noticed across our garage door and parts of the house an encrusted yellow material with shards of white. I had never noticed that before. I didn’t want to look into it with Chotee or Bhari watching so I’d do it after school.
I felt like Nancy Drew when I came home and had an opportunity to look at the house closely. It looked like yellow paint with white paint chips. After closer inspection I realized that it was an egg. A broken egg; many broken eggs against our home. That’s impossible- who would waste food like this! I must be going crazy with all of this California sun. Eggs? Ridiculous! Eggs are food.
Some days later Puppa was talking to our neighbor, an Australian immigrant, who was apologizing on behalf of the white kids who live in our neighborhood. “They’re ignorant, ya know? They don’t understand that we all want the same things for our families. They’ve been taught to mistrust. Don’t let them push you away.”
“I am not a victim. I might make you feel uncomfortable, but the fact remains that I do exist.”
Not until years later, when I found out what “egging someone’s house” was all about did I comprehend the full extent of our situation. My family and I have been the victims of ignorance: during the first Iraqi war, during my term as a teacher in Yucaipa Unified School District, when neighbor’s insisted that I was the nanny to my twin boys, post 9/11, and numerous other times. It has become part of our bi-racial, multiple-spiritual family’s existence.
I am not a victim. I might make you feel uncomfortable, but the fact remains that I do exist. My marriage exists. My friendships with people from all different backgrounds, varied experiences, sexual orientations, and heritage exist. We all exist because of people such as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Dr. King embodies thousands who have given the greatest sacrifice- life. I celebrate them every day. I thank them on a daily basis. I lift them up in prayer. I may not know their names, not know their story but I do know their souls. Their souls are entwined with mine. My soul is entwined to souls yet to come. Future souls may or may not know my name, they may or may not know my story, but I shall do what I must in this lifetime so they too can exist.
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